


Stay A Thousand Years

by queenrhaenyra (orphan_account)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghost Daenerys, No resurrection, POV Jon Snow, Post Canon (after 8x06), Sad, So much angst, With a (sort of) happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22068193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/queenrhaenyra
Summary: Gods, he couldn’t get turned on by a pretty girl throwing herself at him, but his body was on fire at the sight of his dead lover haunting him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 20
Kudos: 174





	Stay A Thousand Years

**Author's Note:**

> A little something I wrote last year and found buried in my computer. It made me sad reading it so now I hope to make you sad...sorry x

The first time she came to him, he was getting ready for bed. They’d been travelling for days now until they finally decided to make camp here and rest. Jon was taking off his boots when he saw the candlelight flicker, the shadows dancing across the tent. He didn’t pay much attention to it until it happened again and this time, he felt a presence. Not a human presence, though, something almost…spiritual.

“I always liked it better when you let your hair down,” a voice murmured.

He froze and then looked up.

His heart might’ve stopped.

Perhaps it did stop and he was already dead.

Because _she_ looked real. So real.

Her hair looked real. The moonlit curls, the way they tumbled down her frame to the side of her breasts. Her eyes looked real. Violet, amethyst, _vivid._ Her lips, the heart-shaped mouth that had been on his and all over him.

His dagger was still in her chest.

He broke out in a sob. He didn’t expect it to happen so fast; the haunting. He knew eventually he’d begin seeing her again, outside of his very graphic dreams. But he did not think he would see her without closing his eyes.

“Why are you crying?” she asked softly, “Just say the word and I’ll disappear forever.”

***

The first three nights were terrible. When she’d appear, he’d just cry, cry and cry. She would watch silently.

On the fourth night, when the tears wouldn’t come – maybe because there was not any left – he found his voice again, raspy and unused as it was, and he apologised. “If I could take it back, I would,” he repeated over and over for the five more nights to come. She never replied to his apologies, she only looked at him.

On the tenth night, when he apologised again—for not having been there for her, for having failed her like everyone else, he got angry when she refused to acknowledge him. Like she was a fucking ghost. “Say something!” he yelled, heart screaming in agony. “ _Anything_.” It was softer, pained.

“It’s too late,” she said then. “Nothing really matters.”

On the eleventh night, she was waiting on his bed when he got inside. She raised an eyebrow at him, as if waiting for him to miserably stutter out apologies again. But he didn’t. This time, he stared at her, this woman he’d loved. The one who’d amazed him the moment he first saw her, the one he’d put his whole trust in. Not just for himself, but for the whole world. And what did she do with that trust? “Why don’t _you_ apologise?” he asked, the words gritted out. “For what you did. You failed me too. I believed in you—we all did. You failed us, too. You were supposed to put an end to tyranny, not become one yourself.”

“I’m a ghost, Jon. What do you want me to apologise for?” she answered, sighing. “Like I said, say the word and I’ll disappear forever.”

***

“Can anyone else see you?”

“I’m a _ghost_. What part of that is hard to understand?”

“You just feel so real.”

“No one else but you can see me.”

“Oh.”

“You know what, I feel bad for Rhaegar.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Just wondering what he must think right now, his son and heir exiled beyond The Wall, haunted by his sister that he stabbed to death. So much for the last two Targaryens coming together, hm?”

“….”

“Just say the word and I’ll disappear forever.”

***

One night, she sat on his bed wearing a flimsy blue dress, the material translucent and soft-looking.

The knife in her heart seemed to come with whatever she wore, though, so that ruined the mood.

He sighed as he came in, tired of the day. He would be heading back to Castle Black soon, for Sansa and Bran were supposed to visit.

“Remember this dress?” Daenerys asked, her head propped on her palm as she leaned on her elbow and watched him undress for bed.

Jon dug through his brain, flicking through all the images of the dresses she wore for him. And – ah, yes he recognised it. “You wore it on the boat,” he said, throat closing up at the memory. “You were trying to seduce me.” They’d agreed to sail together but he was having second thoughts about making a move on her so she showed up in that pitiful excuse for a gown one night and he’d damned near lost his senses and was _that_ close to throwing himself into the sea.

“You were already seduced by that point. You just needed something to tip you over.”

“Well, it worked.” He went back to her that night after dinner and bedded her for the first time. And then around seven more times after that.

The ghost smiled. “It did.”

His eyes stung to keep looking at her and he was tired of crying so he distracted himself, looked at anything else but her. “I think about that boat every day,” he said, “maybe we should’ve stayed on it.”

She sounded amused. “You wanted to stay on a boat?”

“Yes. Just keep sailing. Me and you.”

“The Night King would’ve massacred the world, then.”

“Maybe he should’ve,” Jon said bitterly.

His whole life, he had only one goal: defeating the army of the Dead.

He saved the world—and had to kill his own.

And even after that, he didn’t fucking die. What else was there to take for him? He was but a shell of the man he used to be. He felt emptier now than he did when he died. When would this misery end? Sometimes, he wondered if _he_ would have to put an end to it.

He felt her shift and then she was next to him, her smile easy and pretty as she said her usual parting words, “Just say the word and I’ll disappear forever.”

***

On an occasion, he saw her in broad daylight as they were riding in the forest. Ghost was trotting next to Jon’s horse and she appeared next to him, on a silver horse of her own. She looked ethereal—like an angel. He almost fell off his.

“Remember when you told me I ruined horses for you?” she teased.

“You did,” he answered. Nothing compared to the feeling of being on top of a dragon.

 _The brave men did not kill dragons,_ Dany used to muse teasingly after they made love _, the brave men rode them._

He did both.

“What?” Tormund asked next to him. “Did you just speak to me, crow?”

Jon looked away, embarrassed.

If she kept appearing like that, everyone would think he was losing his mind, speaking to himself.

Daenerys rode forward, her silver hair whipping across her face as her platinum horse stood out amongst the black ones.

Maybe he already lost his mind.

***

“Sansa came to see me today,” Jon told her as he got in the bed next to her.

Funnily enough, she scooted over. As if she were real and they had to share the bed.

Gods. He was absolutely fucking insane. Yet, being with her was the only thing that made sense nowadays.

“How’s she?” Daenerys asked.

“Do you care?”

“No.”

He huffed a laugh despite himself.

“Oh, not because she’s Sansa. Because I’m a ghost. I don’t…care. I don’t feel anymore.”

“You sound like Bran.”

She laughed at that. “But Daenerys wouldn’t care either,” she said then. “She’d only care how you felt about her visit.”

“I don’t know how I felt. Maybe I’m a ghost too. Only time I _feel_ is when I think of you. And it’s never good things that I feel so there’s that.” He lifted his hand and her gaze followed it. “I burned my hand today. I felt nothing.”

She reached out and Jon’s heart thumped in anticipation against his chest, thinking he’d feel her fingers on him. But they only pierced through his skin like a cloud. Like a ghost. “Doesn’t look too bad,” she teased.

“Sansa wears a crown now.”

“Good for her.”

Jon’s eyes felt heavy. He was sleepy.

She said the same words to him, like she did every night, and she disappeared shortly after as his eyelids draped over his eyes and he succumbed to the appealing darkness—only to reappear in his dreams.

***

“What did you even mean when you said that I was your queen now and always?”

“Exactly that. That you’d always be my queen.”

“But you killed me.”

“I know. I meant that I’d always love you, that there would be no one I’d believe in more than I believed in you. No one like you.”

“If I didn’t have a dagger in my non-existent heart right now, that would’ve probably moved me.”

“…”

“Gods, you need to get used to the dark jokes.”

“…”

“Just say the word and—”

“—I’ll disappear forever. I know.”

***

They were eating together one evening. Jon, Tormund and the other wildlings, gathered around a fire when Daenerys appeared.

“Who’s that girl?” Daenerys whispered next to him.

Jon glanced up at Tormund before he looked to his side, finding her staring at him with her striking eyes. “Who?” he asked, hoping no one saw him mutter that word to himself. Wasn’t there a way he could communicate with his ghost mentally so as to appear sane?

“The one who keeps looking over here.”

He glanced around. “The girl with the curly red hair?” he inquired.

Daenerys nodded.

“I don’t know. A wildling. Her name’s…Wylla, I believe.”

“Hm. You’re aware she really wants to fuck you, right?”

Jon choked on the soup.

Tormund looked at him weirdly.

He cleared his throat, assuring Tormund he was fine.

Ghost Dany had a good laugh about it. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered distastefully. Suddenly, he wasn’t even hungry anymore.

“I mean you were oblivious to all the times I was practically eye-fucking you on Dragonstone so no wonder you’re even more now, given how much broodier you’ve become since you killed me.”

“Can you stop saying that?”

“Saying what?”

“That I…killed you.”

“Well, you did.”

“Yes but I’d like _not_ to be reminded of it every day. I already think of it enough and it’s not funny, no matter how hard you try to make it appear lighter than what it was.”

She sighed heavily, like he’d ruined her mood. “Fine, then just say the word and I’ll disappear. Forever.”

***

Dany was right. That Wylla girl did want him.

On a drunken night, she made her way to him and as they talked, she got closer and closer, touching his forearm and giggling like a young maiden, even if Jon was the farthest thing from a funny man. And she kissed him before he went to bed. Even as Jon froze, she moved her mouth against his, her hands drifting down his chest to palm his cock—

“Sorry,” he pulled away from her hot mouth, pushing her hands away.

Wylla’s eyes filled with hurt. Jon felt nothing at the sight.

Daenerys was on his bed, smirking at him as he entered.

“How are you always right?” he asked, annoyed. “Even as a fuckin’ ghost?”

He was drunk out of his mind so imaginary Dany wasn’t staying in focus. One blink she wore a red dress and the next time he opened his eyes, he could see her naked. His cock twitched in the confines of his leathers. _Gods, he couldn’t get turned on by a pretty girl throwing herself at him, but his body was on fire at the sight of his dead lover haunting him._

“Do you want me to help you?” she asked sultrily.

He huffed in irritation. “You’re not real,” he said tiredly. And to himself, “Yet you keep speakin’ to whatever the fuck that is.”

“If you think hard enough, you could almost imagine me here,” she murmured, this phantom of his. She came closer, now draped in a silky purple dress, her breasts almost spilling from the gauzy material. He could see that her nipples were pebbled. “What would I do if I were here, Jon?”

He was so tired. So tired of fighting, of reasoning with himself. He didn’t even have the courage to remind himself that she wasn’t fucking real. Instead, he found himself saying, “You’d kiss me.”

She grinned. “Ah, no. You always initiate the kisses.”

“False. I always pull you closer but it’s always you who starts the kissin’ because you’re a bloody impatient woman.”

“Hm, maybe you’re right. But it’s you who liked kissing down my neck.”

“Aye. I did. And that sweet spot below your ear, the one that made you gasp when I ran my tongue over it.”

“And you’d whisper filthy things in my ear, telling me all the ways you’d fuck me.”

He swallowed, body tingling. “I would. And I would struggle with your pretty dresses and get frustrated with them.”

She laughed and the sound made him shudder because it had been so long since he’d heard something so sweet. “If I didn’t help you, you’d tear them off.”

He chuckled. “I would.” His voice turned guttural, his hand cupping himself over his trousers, rubbing his clothed length to relieve himself. “I would kiss those love breasts of yours, lovin’ how they filled my hands like they were made for me. I would sprawl you out on the bed and kiss down your stomach. I’d tease you, make you beg for it. And you would. Gods, you said a dragon never begs but you always did for me. You would try to pull my mouth down to your cunt and I’d try to resist but eventually I would fail. And I would wrap my mouth around that little nub, and slipping my tongue inside you to taste your sweetness…”

He had to stop talking. He didn’t realise he had taken his cock out but now his hand was stroking his bare length as he tried to picture her again. Daenerys underneath him, writhing for him, her eyes full of lust and love.

Her ghost was right. If he thought hard enough, he could almost imagine it. He could imagine being engulfed in her tight heat and fucking her, until they both screamed. He could imagine the way she’d milk every single drop of his cum and would _beg_ him to fill her with his seed.

The strings of pleasure in his guts snapped as he grunted, ribbons of his cum squirting over his hand and on the floor. He breathed out heavily.

“Could’ve been easier with Wylla,” Daenerys said.

He scowled at her.

He fell asleep before he could hear her say that frustrating sentence.

***

“If I had a child, what would you have wanted her name to be?”

“ _Daenerys,_ please.”

“It’s just a question.”

“How do you know it would’ve been a girl?”

“Fine, _if_ it was a girl?”

“I don’t know. I’d let you choose.”

“I would’ve liked Rhaella.”

“Robb.”

“What?”

“If it was a boy, I would’ve liked to name him Robb. I always thought that if I had a son, I would name him after my brother.”

“Rhaella and Robb. If you close your eyes, you can almost see them.”

He did. He closed his eyes and saw his children. They had their mother’s hair and his eyes. They were happy and loved. The four of them were in a field of blue roses and Daenerys looked as beautiful as ever, in one of her pretty dresses with her hair down. Their children were happy. They didn’t know war or blood, they knew sunshine and laughter.

The dream was so sweet that tears slipped down his cheeks and he cried until he fell asleep.

***

One day, Tormund told Jon that he heard him talking alone at night. Jon didn’t try to deny what was happening and his friend didn’t approve. “She’s dead,” he said. “I know it’s hard, trust me, I understand how painful it must be for you but this is not how you’ll move on. Stop clinging to her ghost. You made that up. She is _gone_.”

So that evening he asked Daenerys, “did I make you up?”

“I’m a ghost.”

“What does that mean? Are you…Daenerys’ soul or something?”

“I don’t know, Jon, there’s no school for ghosts.” She rolled her eyes.

“Am I going crazy?” he whispered.

She pouted. “That’s a thing with Targaryens, I’ve heard.”

He didn’t find this funny. “Give me a sign you’re not something I _made_ up,” he said, desperate, “just—let me…let me feel you.”

“Jon…”

“Please,” he cried, “Just once. Let me touch you. Please, Daenerys.” He came closer to her, but never felt the heat of her body like he’d once used to. He sobbed. He couldn’t _smell_ her anymore. “I forget things about you— _her_ ,” he admitted, ashamed of himself, “I can’t help it…I forget the way you smelled. I forget the way you tasted. I forget the sound of your voice,” his voice broke as a sob rose in his throat, “please help me remember. Come back to me, please.” He reached out for her, grabbing at her face but he felt nothing. He tried again, frustrated, tired. His knees wobbled as he fell to the ground. “ _Please._ ”

She looked down at him, that thing who looked like Daenerys but wasn’t. “I can’t bring her back, Jon.”

“Then _leave_ ,” he shouted, so hard he felt his whole body shake with it, the vein in his neck popping, “what the _fuck_ is the word I have to say? I want you gone. Leave. Go. Don’t—don’t come back. Please. Go away. I want it to stop hurting.” 

When he opened his eyes, there was no one in his room.

***

If he was insane for imagining her, then he didn’t want to know what being sane was.

He missed her. As pathetic as that was, on top of missing Daenerys he was now missing the fragment of his imagination that resembled her. He didn’t care if he made it up, he just wanted her back.

And if she was a part of his mind, then he should be able to bring her back, right? But no. He couldn’t. He looked for her everywhere, called out to her. The wildlings all believed him to have fully lost his mind now, but he didn’t care.

“I need her back,” he told Tormund. “I need to see her again.”

His friend didn’t know what to say to him. No one did.

That night, he was out of ideas to have his ghost back.

_Except…_

There was one thing left to do.

Something final.

Ghost entered his tent, as if he knew what he was about to do. He jumped on Jon, licking at his face. Jon smiled weakly. “You’ll always be a part of me,” he whispered.

He had made up his mind.

***

When he opened his eyes, he was facing the waterfall.

He turned around, desperately searching for her.

Daenerys stood in a beautiful white dress, a little smile on her face when her gaze found his. Tentatively, he moved forward. _Please, let it be real._

This time, when he reached out for her, she didn’t slip through him. Her hand was warm as she threaded their fingers together and he let out a sob—of pure joy. He pulled her to him, crashing their mouths together, his hands roaming all over her body.

He would never let her go. Never.

“We can stay here,” she said against his lips as he kissed her over and over and over, “a thousand years. No one will find us.”

He laughed. He was happy, at last. And this time, it would last. In perpetuity. “Yes. We can. We will.”


End file.
